


Age Before Beauty

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, And Lots of It, Birthday Presents, Birthday Sex, Body Worship, Cock Rings, Cock Worship, Edging, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mirror Sex, Not Canon Compliant, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Restraints, Sex Toys, Smut, Teasing, Tie and tease, Vibrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 05:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: You’re as young as the man you feel, as Harry has become fond of quipping when close friends rib him about his age.Mostly, his consideration of his advancing years amounts to a sort of casual hedonism: eating good food, drinking from the top shelf and making debauched, indulgent love to this incredible boy fate has graced him with - who makes him feel as full of life as he did at twenty - more often than most people would credit for a man of his own fine vintage.Fifty fucking four, though.





	Age Before Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galahadsquared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galahadsquared/gifts).



> I'm still here! For those who noted my prolificness... prolification? neither of those are words, you know... had dropped off, it in fact HAS NOT. I'm just working on two super major chaptered works whilst wrangling real life changes and all sorts, but most relevantly I AM writing plenty and if you don't want to miss the doubtless arbitrary posting dates for my new works (because I'm not going to start posting them until they're complete) please consider subscribing, or adding me on tumblr - randomactsofviolence - or both! I sincerely hope they’re going to be worth the wait.
> 
> This one's a belated birthday gift for Addie, the absolute genius behind visuallyhartwin and integral cog in the ideas machine that keeps me writing. Addie, I value your friendship, your ideas and your sense of humour - I hope you enjoy this!

Age Before Beauty

 

You’re as young as the man you feel, as Harry has become fond of quipping when close friends rib him about his age. It was gathering frequency even before he’d taken up with a lover twenty three years his junior… that  _ had  _ taken the sting out of it somewhat, though: the jokes got lewder, but became ceaselessly flattering in context.

Fifty four though.

Fifty fucking four.

How has he even survived this long? Not making old bones seemed glamorous and inevitable a decade or two ago that seems like mere heartbeats now. And yet the sands seem to be speeding up as they slip through the hourglass.

He gets maudlin about it, occasionally, and Eggsy will joke that with the shelf lives of spies perhaps harry is  _ his _ mid life crisis, follow it by telling Harry he’s been well past his sell by date since Eggsy was about twelve, so would he like a drink and to fuck off about it, and the answer is always yes. Once or twice the answer has been jagerbombs, because Eggsy insists nothing demonstrates your youthful hubris like mixing spirits and stimulants, and he’s sort of right in the sense harry tends to wake up from their spontaneous nights out feeling like he’s a hundred and four, or perhaps already dead, but  _ so does Eggsy _ , and by the time they’ve pushed through a recovery involving bloody marys and the long, slow blowjobs Eggsy’s particularly partial to when he’s hungover, Harry’s grateful for his regular aches and pains.

He’s not doing so badly. He can party Eggsy, at 26, under any given table, or give him a thoroughly respectable seeing to on top of it with equal aplomb.

Fifty fucking four, though.

Mostly, Harry’s consideration of his advancing years amounts to a sort of casual hedonism. His work keeps him fit and comfortably solvent and affords him either plenty of free time or none whatsoever depending on the events of the day, and Harry has taken to making hay whilst the sun shines: eating good food, drinking from the top shelf and making debauched, indulgent love to this incredible boy fate has graced him with - who makes him feel as full of life as he did at twenty - more often than most people would credit for a man his age. He reasons that perhaps his cardiovascular system is keeping up on a ‘use it or lose it’ basis, and although Eggsy himself has never made Harry feel that he has anything to prove regarding his ability to keep up, it doesn’t hurt to prove the point anyway.

Fortunately Eggsy catches him in a silly mood when he asks about it… probably a deliberate move to avoid a meltdown. Eggsy’s a clever thing, nearly as sharp as he is gorgeous, which is no mean feat, and he does rather lead the question by asking him whilst he’s straddling Harry’s lap and teasing him with little grinds and nibbles after a day of anxious decontamination testing topped off with good news and a full half hour of grateful snogging, which was escalating nicely.

“What do you want for your birthday, Harry?”

Harry has to let go of Eggsy’s earlobe with his teeth to nuzzle in his ear and breathe the only thing he can, at that moment, conceive of wanting ever again.

“You, on my cock.”

Eggsy coughs a surprised little laugh that Harry feels against his hair.

“Just… on it. Not doing anything to it. Just existing. Keeping it warm for ya.”

“Might be all I’m up to, at my age, you know?”

Eggsy knows better, of course, and just scoffs at him. It’s an image though, isn’t it? Eggsy’s just being there. Ornamental. Tense but patient, his own needs politely waiting their turn whilst Harry enjoys Eggsy’s body for as long as he wants...

And with that Harry decides that yes, actually, that’s how he’s like to spend as much of his birthday as possible.

His lack of actually saying anything further - besides his obvious arousal - leads Eggsy to conclude that he is at least partially serious. It’s not as though their more elaborate sexual antics are exclusively resigned to any occasion more special than not having to get up early, but they’re maintaining that phase in which those that arise are definitely sacrosanct not only for spending in bed but for making a proper effort about it.

“Anything in particular? You want me to like, dress up as anything, or…?”

“Not that I can think of right now.” Though the offer is a thoughtful one, it’s not forefront in the fantasy that’s unspooling in his mind’s eye. He kisses up Eggsy’s throat to his jaw and feels the rumble through his chest that isn’t quite a moan. Not yet. “You might save yourself for me, just a little?”

It’s become something of a code for them, a gentle way for Harry to ask Eggsy not to indulge that magical youthful libido of his for a couple of days without slipping into a heavier game altogether. Not as a punishment or a challenge; not with any specific parameters or an outright rule for Eggsy not to touch himself; just a gentle nudge to go without for long enough to make him  _ really _ want it.

Eggsy sucks air in through his teeth like a mechanic about to tell Harry that the work he needs done is expensive.

“Alright, but you know what happens.”

He does, of course, and that’s why he asked. Eggsy’s customary morning wank is usually dealt with before Harry even wakes up and never impedes upon their evening activities, but a couple of days without it is usually enough to make him gratifyingly horny and pliable, if not absolutely desperate depending on mood and whether he’s got any from Harry in the meantime. If he’s gone without completely, he’ll be wound tight and extra eager for it, paradoxically either ready to go off at the merest touch of a tongue or overwhelmed and requiring a great deal of effort to finally climax.

In either case there’s no use either of them pretending they don’t know how Harry feels about the sheer quantity of spunk Eggsy manages after any more than a day of abstinence. It’s a glorious thing.

They won’t fuck now, they’re too invested separately imagining what fantasies Harry’s birthday indulgence might fulfil, close and breathing hard whilst they kiss and rut together.  Perhaps they’ll need to use their hands in the final stretch or perhaps Eggsy’s hard and shining belly will prove too much for Harry again, and Harry will complain about neither. it’s all rather lovely, as far as he's concerned.

***

 

When Harry awakes on his birthday, it takes a few moments for the usual vague sense of trepidation to kick in. There’s something distinctly unsettling about being the focus of attention - to an unspecified degree -  by default, for all Harry is a demon for courting the limelight when the fancy takes him. Still, he’s alone with Eggsy, so the morning is on balance most likely to contain sex and presents.

 

...Sex first and foremost,  if the wet spot Eggsy has nudged into the small of Harry’s back is anything to place stock in, and Harry’s not a morning person, not ordinarily amenable to Eggsy’s early advances but he supposes he  _ has _ had a lie in: the flesh is apparently very very willing and there’s little more likely to get the spirit to agree than the thought of Eggsy rubbing up against his back in the small hours, that gorgeous cock of his already rock solid and drooling with excitement. Harry decides fifty four is going to be a very, very good birthday.

 

Not that his last few have been anything short of magical.

The first birthday they’d spent together, Eggsy had gone completely overboard. Harry should have seen it coming, really: Eggsy was adjusting, still, to having expendable income and a long term partner, and he  _ had _ asked Harry for suggestions as to what he was supposed to get him for his birthday. Harry had lead him in the directions “nothing big” and “perhaps a few treats or a trip somewhere” thinking, foolishly, that Eggsy might head for something like theatre tickets or … he has no idea. What he did not expect, although he perhaps should have, was for Eggsy to leave him for a treasured lie in only to pick him up in a convertible Maserati and whisk him off for a long weekend in the New Forest, in a little cabin with its own hot tub, which would have been sufficiently over indulgent had the boot of the car not been full of absurdly expensive, professionally gift wrapped presents: old booze and new clothes; imported tea; an unfamiliar cologne from Penhaglion’s  which had turned out to be a customised blend and was every bit as perfectly suited to Harry’s tastes as Eggsy must have paid for it to be.

Heavens only knew how much he’d spent putting all that together, and Harry could have kicked himself for not realising how the ethos of spending every penny you could spare -  and a few you most certainly couldn’t - on those you love would translate to Eggsy’s new lifestyle. He’d had to firmly and gently make the point that whilst he was overwhelmed with thanks and gratitude, Eggsy’s gifts would last him his next five birthdays and Christmas besides, and he wasn’t about to be tempted into outdoing each other with every passing occasion. Boundaries set as quickly and as painlessly as possible, Harry had soothed Eggsy’s pride by affirming that since this was the only birthday on which he’d be the subject of quite so much effort he was absolutely going to enjoy every moment… beginning with putting his sunglasses on and the roof down and fully appreciating Eggsy at the wheel of that ridiculous car, in a turquoise Ralph Lauren polo shirt that skimmed his chest and squeezed at the thickness of his biceps as he lazily swung them out onto the road.  He looked every bit the guilty eyecandy, the spoilt trust fund pin up; the sort of boy Harry would know to be an utter self-important tosser on sight, so he was surprised to find it quite as arousing as he did, but if the double-takes they got in Waitrose when they stopped to pick up fresh strawberries to go with their champagne were anything to go by he wasn’t the only one who thought it was a breathtaking look on Eggsy specifically.

And the driving. Good god. Harry has a weakness for Eggsy’s easy command of a car at the best of times, but open roads through beautiful scenery at speeds that would be nothing short of terrifying at the hands of a less competent man had made Harry feel like nothing so much as the heroine of an artistic perfume advert, save for the distinctly unsubtle bulge in his trousers that Eggsy was paying too much attention to the road to notice, or else knew would exist and so didn’t feel any need to check. It wasn’t about that, really, and when Harry dialed in he could confidently reassure Merlin that his sudden enquiry about their likelihood of encountering the constabulary on

the A31 had not been because of a sudden interest in dogging. But it had meant Eggsy could open that beautiful car’s throttle right up and glide them through the gentle curves of the moorlands pushing a cool hundred and forty miles an hour that felts as effortless as sixty five, apart from the way he breathed into the cornering;  the way the backs of his arms pricked up with goosebumps that Harry’s skin echoed, ached for.

As it happened they made it back to the cabin without violating any laws except the speed limit, constantly and with so much grace Harry is still fairly confident the police would have just whistled and let them off.

A strange paraphilia, the arousal that followed, partly because they both had to sit on it whilst the sat nav took them down the last few unnamed roads and blind bends: adrenaline fuelled, still, but without the urgency or fear that stalks them after gunfights or dangling off buildings. There was  no  _ I’m terrified of a life without you  _ to be read into those touches, far less desperate passion and  _ please don’t get hurt  _ and far more  _ that was the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen  _ and turbocharged lust _ ,  _ and the strawberries and champagne had sat abandoned in the icebox, the hot tub cool and still as a millpond whilst they’d taken their enthusiasm straight to bed.

In truth? Harry had never had a birthday like it. He’d never felt so cherished, so pampered and spoiled in his life, and it was incredible.  Still, he was as good as his word on never expecting any more than Eggsy’s company, providing no global crisis needed them more than their own bed did and today contains no plans other than dinner and drinks at a members’ club where everybody knows them as the tailors and everybody is almost certainly sure they’re not tailors, but the service remains discreet and their cocktails are flawless so it’s an obvious choice.

Eggsy brings Harry breakfast in bed, and JB wears a cone shaped sparkly party hat for the thirty seconds he’s perplexed rigid by it, and then tears it off and attacks it. Later, he shits glitter round the garden. Over breakfast, Harry opens a card so absolutely obscene he’s highly surprised Moonpig were allowed to print it, and presents from Eggsy: Turkish delight from Fortnum and Mason, a tie from Gresham Blake - a darling tailors’  in Brighton he doubts Eggsy is aware he knows personally, and in Robert’s case biblically although there was absolutely nothing biblical about it at the time - with stylised beetles and butterflies hidden within the print and Harry is immediately too enamored of it, sentimentally and aesthetically, to be bothered that it isn’t his usual style. He loves it and he tells Eggsy so, earnestly and with a kiss that tastes of tea and toothpaste.

“There are two plans for today,” Eggsy begins and Harry’s all ears but he already knows the gist of the option he’s going to go for. “We can go to the aquarium, see the new rainforest bit with the frogs, and go for tea and cake at the place on the south bank you like. Or, as promised, we can stay right here.”

Harry grabs Eggsy by the hips to lay a kiss on his sternum through his t-shirt, making his choice obvious without a word. If there’s such a thing as an age at which a nice little day out to stare at fish through glass is more appealing than a day in bed with Eggsy, Harry isn’t interested in living to see it at this moment.

“I might have some requests.”

Eggsy’s eyes almost roll but it’s a pleasured, indulgent thing.

“ _ Yes _ , Harry. What are you in the mood for? Anything you want, birthday boy, I’m all yours.” Harry is privately convinced that one day that wink will be the death of someone, but his heart feels strong enough to weather the challenge for now.

“Can we perhaps move to the guest room?”

“Yes!” Eggsy knows, without a second to consider it, that the one benefit the guest room offers over their bedroom is a mirrored wardrobe. “What else? Want me to wear anything special? Toys?” What counts as special might be up for question: Eggsy normally dredges up roleplay outfits from things he already owns but he’s got an eye for it, or else an almost preternaturally deep understanding of the thinking behind most of Harry’s fantasies. He’s also got an incredible collection of obscurely patterned garish boxer shorts and a couple of items of lace, but if Harry goes down that route even in his head they’ll not make it to the spare bedroom at all.

“Nothing at all is perfect, and I’ll bring those. Could you take my office chair in with you?”

Eggsy makes an excitable noise that sounds a lot like “ _ heeeeeee _ ” as he half jogs out of the room. Oh, to have an ounce of his morning enthusiasm - though , that said, Harry has been hard since he first considered the patch of wetness weighing his sleep shirt against the small of his back and breakfast has perked him up significantly enough to get started. Eggsy’s just going to have a very long, hard wait for the rest.

Fortifying himself by draining his tea, Harry hauls himself out of bed, visits the bathroom, and brushes his teeth. It would be remiss, he supposes, not to check for additional wrinkles but his face does not seem to have added any tally marks for the occasion.  _ Fifty fucking four. _

When he makes it to the guest bedroom, the sight of Eggsy is enough to jolt Harry out of the  lingering grasp of sleep. He’s only dragging Harry’s office chair to a position of honour in front of the mirrors, with the bedside table pulled over to host his second cup of tea, but he looks like a dream: hard already, bare feet and thick thighs, sturdy and gorgeous, lugging furniture around wearing only a pair of  boxers Harry doesn’t doubt he picked out specifically for the occasion because they’re baby blue with little cupcakes all over them and some extremely dubiously placed cherries.

Harry takes the offered seat in his chair and gets comfortable, making sure he’s got everything he wants within reach and then taking time to admire everything he’s being offered, everything he has the chance to do. Eggsy on any given day, in any circumstance is enough to make Harry count his blessings twice over but cheekily subservient, getting his kicks from presenting himself to Harry as a treat - because there’s no doubt that’s what he’s doing - is a rare treasure indeed. To be savoured, lingered over, like a fine malt.

Eggsy stands at an approximation of parade rest, hands at the small of his back, chest out, and a grin on his face so earnest it makes his cheeks dimple.

“Come here. Leave the pants, if you would.” That mention, and Harry’s smile, is enough to satisfy Eggsy that Harry has at least noticed his choice for the day, and he’s equally keen to comply in showing him what’s underneath, shucking his boxers down and stepping out of them so that he can stand in front of Harry totally nude, his erection conveniently eye level. Harry has never given his desk chair credit for being quite so fluidly ergonomic, though it’s certainly been misappropriated on a number of occasions, the poor thing.

Eggsy presents himself to be touched and admired without shame, and the first glances of Harry’s warm hands are enough to distract him from craning to see what toys have been placed on and against the table, although Harry’s not sure they give much away. Centre stage for the moment is reserved wholly for the divot of muscle just above Eggsy’s belly button Harry makes no effort to resist the urge to kiss; then for his cock as Harry begins by giving him long, slow strokes to make sure he’s truly as hard as he can be, urging out the pleasing little dribble of precome and spreading it down before passing him the cock ring from the table.

“You do it, darling, I don’t want to pinch you.”  He doesn’t want to stop, either, because Eggsy’s skin tastes like morning and the sugar from Harry’s tea where he’s already kissed it; like salt and soap and heaven.

“Oh.” Eggsy evidently hasn’t put together quite where this is going yet, not that it seems to be bothering him in the slightest. “Yeah, sure. Here.” He twists away from Harry’s mouth so that he can see what he’s doing,  holds the loop open over the spread of his fingers to bring it down to the base of his cock and lets it sit loose there whilst he gives himself a couple of indulgent pumps of his hand. Theirs - the only version Harry would get for them - is less a true ring than a rubber cord, held together with a toggle that Eggsy adjusts to sit snugly in the dent between his balls and the root of his cock: as tight as it needs to be but able to be released in a split second. It looks very slightly like his cock is wearing a Bolo tie, but Harry can’t find that as ridiculous as he wants to because the toy starts taking effect before he gets a chance.

The first few moment are too beautiful to do anything but just watch.  

Eggsy’s already dusky cock darkens as the blood rushing to supply it finds it not as easy, suddenly, to leave, and it jerks a couple of times of its own accord as it fills. Eggsy sighs, adjusting to the sensation; to the awareness he’s going to feel like this for some time, and spreads his hand around the root to press down on his pubis: part comfort, part frame. Harry’s probably being absurd in his old age but he suspects his mouth actually starts watering, then.

Eggsy is warmly silent and doesn’t challenge this first of Harry’s birthday whims. He just stands there, grin still lifting half of his mouth but it’s darker now, watching along with Harry as his cock thickens and throbs. After a minute or so the veins start to stand out and Harry doesn’t try to suppress the urge to lean down and trace one that wiggles up the side of Eggsy’s cock with his tongue, to follow it to where it disappears just below the head before picking another to follow back down. Always appreciative of Harry’s mouth anyway, Eggsy lets his head drop back and sighs again as Harry takes him into his mouth properly, and the sigh turns into a groan when he hits the back of Harry’s throat. But - and it’s a sure sign it’s still before noon that it’s taken Harry this long to realise  - he’s not making any move to hurry: Eggsy has fully committed to the role of the pliant, willing birthday present and the thrill of power, freely given, gives Harry’s arousal the kick it needs to wake up fully. He has all this to play with; he has one good fuck in him, and by god he’s going to make it count.

So he pulls back. Eggsy’s still deep breathing patiently for the sudden loss of Harry’s mouth when Harry grabs his arms to pull his hands from behind the small of his back - were they crossed there like that, like a silver service butler, waiting to be of use? He’s a menace, this one, a monster - and wrap leather cuffs around his wrists. The trigger clips attached to the metalware of each dangle free when he fastens them snug, and rattle when Eggsy shakes his arms out to settle them.

“The fuck are you even up to?”

Well, quite. Harry can understand how the cock ring might have indicated a different set of events unfolding for their morning, and Eggsy’s cock  _ does  _ look incredible: rock solid, in stark relief; it looks like a spectacular ride, like a particularly well sculpted toy, but even Eggsy’s gentle, pampering breakfast call was too little too early to persuade Harry to indulge anything that energetic.

He  _ is _ fifty fucking four.

By way of as much of an explanation as he feels like giving, Harry squeezes a handful of Eggsy’s arse and passes him the Liquid Silk.

“I’d like to watch you do it, if I may.”

Eggsy smiles at him anew, almost more fond than sexy although in context it’s devastating.

“‘Course you may.”

When he settles onto his knees, Eggsy looks back over his shoulder into the mirror for a moment to assess what’s going to work best - he may be a tart but who can blame him - and lays forward over Harry’s lap so Harry can see him bent over in their reflection. The black leather of his cuff is stark against the smooth pallor of his arse cheek, the hint of pinkness Harry glimpses when he starts to spread his cheeks apart is tantalising.

“That the view you want? I can move. I want this to be exactly how you want it.”

“Knees a little further apart.” It’s barely needed but constructive feedback is as important for Eggsy as blind praise: he trusts it, and Harry is rewarded with the best possible view of Eggsy’s middle finger sinking into his body right up to the last knuckle. “That’s perfect.”

“It’s fucking cold.”

It tickles Harry, in more ways than one, that Eggsy’s got so used to him warming up the lube in his hands before it so much as makes contact with his body that he’s a princess about it, but he’s glad Eggsy is accustomed to the way Harry looks after him. Why isn’t he doing that? What’s keeping him rooted imperiously in his seat when he could be...

And then Eggsy moans and Harry refocuses to see two fingers pushing lube into him, and that’s why: in this position he can see both the pure pornography of Eggsy’s fingers sliding in and out of his body and the the sweet, confused face he makes as he reaches for his prostate, eager to give himself that pleasure without the teasing Harry would subject him to first. The flutter of his closed eyes when he finds it, like he’s dreaming; the way his breath is warm against Harry’s bare thigh as he twists his wrist.

“You’ve been playing in the shower,” Harry accuses gently, waiting for Eggsy to be far too absorbed in what he’s doing for a witty comeback.

“Only this. Only to -” and his breath hitches, shudders before he can elaborate, but Harry knows exactly what he means and Eggsy knows why he’s being asked. “I ain’t come since the other night. You know.”

If Harry’s supposed to know then ‘the other night’ presumably refers to the rough, quick, thoroughly enjoyable coupling when Harry had refused point blank to let Eggsy wash off the mud and sweat of a day’s assault course wrangling by himself, and Eggsy had fucked him over the side of the bath for his trouble. Four clear days have passed since then, which is longer than Harry’s known Eggsy to voluntarily abstain from orgasm even with far greater stakes than giving him what he’s asked for on his birthday, which might go some way to explaining why he’s so responsive to his own fingers.  Harry knows, he’s seen, how much is basically required for Eggsy to be comfortable, and knows the point at which they passed that not just for the heat of Eggsy’s cheek against his thigh, the way Eggsy - having been given no further instruction - starts gently rocking back onto his hand. Harry’s cock stiffens even more in his lap but he doesn’t guide Eggsy’s lips to it, however tempting.

Eggsy catches him looking though.

“You just watching, or you want me to stop?”

“Do you think you might come?” Because all the intricately drawn out detail of this fantasy will absolutely, without hesitation, be thrown right out of the window if it Harry has a chance to watch Eggsy finger himself to orgasm in this position. He’s not senile.

“Not with this on.”  Well, that’s for the best probably, and ample proof that the cock ring will serve its purpose when the real fun begins. Whether it will afford complete control over Eggsy’s climax or just make him work really, really hard for it is an unknown factor at this point and if asked Harry would admit that’s part of the fun for him, but he suspects the reason Eggsy hasn’t asked is that Harry makes no particular secret of his internet history, and if it wasn’t Harry’s birthday he reckons he might have been told where to stick the entire idea by this point.

“As close as you can manage, then? It’s a rather gorgeous view.”

“Ain’t so bad from here either,” Eggsy murmurs, raising his gaze to meet Harry’s, almost comically obscured by what must be the monolith of Harry’s cock from his perspective. He reaches the tip of his tongue out to touch it and laughs but even that tiny wet poke of his tongue is strangely thrilling, a tease at a promise, and Harry cannot afford to be distracted.  He grips his own cock and uses that spot of Eggsy’s saliva to smooth a slow pass of his hand whilst he watches him work himself until he’s almost dripping again, otherwise untouched. The movement of his fingers is hidden but Harry can read it in the flexing of his forearm, and his little whimpers as he enjoys it as much as he can.

"Can't do no more," he murmurs after a few minutes' beautiful quiet torture, his eyes hot and pleading. "Ain't enough like this," and his eyes go pointedly to Harry's dick, though he doesn't withdraw his fingers until Harry nods.  

“Perfect. Why don’t you have a seat?”

Eggsy tuts at him - as though his lines are any better, really - but scrambles to his feet, and whether he’s spurred on by his own preparation, the days of waiting or the band around his cock is irrelevant to how good that urgency looks on him. The discussion of which way to face takes place in gestures with the eyebrows and he sinks down on Harry’s cock - facing away, to the mirrors - with something like relief. Gratitude, even. But the  _ “oh god”  _ comes from Harry and he hardly blames himself: he’s barely been touched and there he is being swallowed into the tight, hot perfection of Eggy’s body without a moment’s hesitation, eager and easy, because the boy wants it so much.

For more than the moment it takes him to settle Harry’s tempted to forgo the game altogether and give Eggsy what he wants exactly because he wants it, but letting him off too lightly is always a waste. Eggsy braces one hand on Harry’s knee for balance and wraps the other proudly around his straining cock.

“Hands off. Behind your head, please.”

Eggsy’s swift obedience makes sharp angles of his elbows and a huge flexing mass of his biceps, and the throb of excitement that sends through Harry is so intense Eggsy must feel it. It’s a guilty thing. He feels like he should love Eggsy for his mind, his soul, his wit and his spirit… and it’s not as though he  _ doesn’t,  _ god, Harry would love the very bones of this boy whatever package they came in, he doesn’t doubt that for a moment. But it just so happens that the package they come in is the sort of shape Harry favoured in his porn until the acceptance that he was unlikely to get his hands on a body like that again had become too depressing. He’d lowered his fantasy standards, let alone the yardstick by which he measured real prospects, and then Eggsy fucking Unwin had vaulted in and smashed his perfectly formed way through Kingsman’s physical training, and Harry’s libido had gone  _ yes, I’d like a bit of that,  _ only in far less polite terms. And thank heavens Eggsy had had the gumption to act on his own desires and instincts or Harry would still be pining after him, lonely and wistful and in grave danger of wanking himself into Repetitive Strain Injury.

“That’d be appalling form for sit ups, you know. Your trainer would have your bollocks for earrings.”

“Can we not talk about Jodie and my bollocks in the same sentence? She scares the shit out of me.”

“Hands off the back of your neck then, come on. You know better.”

Eggsy exaggerates an eyeroll that would almost definitely come with a wanking gesture were he not busy perfectly pointing his elbows forwards and curling his fists beside his ears. The cuffs make it doubly obscene somehow and the crunch of his six pack is almost definitely for show but Harry feels absolutely entitled to that today.

“Like this, yeah?” Eggsy winks at him again in the mirror, looking like he’s waiting for an answer even whilst he demonstrates a full body roll from shoulder to thigh that would rival the most accomplished lap dancer and shuts Harry up quite decisively.

Harry grunts at him and lets him get comfortable, a few shifts that turn into riding and for a short while Harry just makes the most of it, swept up in the wave of Eggsy’s movement, selfish as Harry doesn’t doubt that is at that second which only makes it better.  _ He knows I’m going to stop him.  _ That, and Eggsy’s showing off,  and Harry’s happy to be torn between watching the undulation of Eggsy’s whole body in the mirror or the close up sight of the full curve of Eggsy’s arse rocking in his lap, swallowing Harry’s cock and then sliding almost off before sinking back down. The feel of his body is pure, searing bliss.  Harry savours it all, enjoying the flood of pleasure down his back, treasuring Eggsy’s heavy little huffs of effort, and then the groan as he settles into a much quicker pace and drops his right hand to his cock.

“I said up. Keep still for a moment.”

Eggsy obeys immediately and without question -  _ good boy  _ \- but  Harry reaches his hand back and is relieved to find he can grasp the metal bar with his fingertips and pull it close enough to get a hold on. Eggsy looks confused in the mirror for a moment, daunted, his hands held back up by his ears as Harry gently lays the bar across his shoulders, pulls Eggsy’s hands into position and cuffs them to the innermost set of loops on the bar, just either side of his neck.

“There, how does that feel?”

Eggsy’s face in the mirror is flushed and unimpressed. He blows a strand of hair away from ticking his forehead.

“I feel like one of them fucking milkmaids in Oliver.”

“And every bit as pretty.”

Harry tells him nothing else, gives him no instruction or guidance and Eggsy’s either got wise or tired himself out already because he keeps completely still, and that’s heaven. Harry tips his head back and shuts his eyes: just enjoys the throbbing heat of Eggsy around his cock, consistent and unmoving, heavenly. For a moment there is no desire to fuck. It’s just a perfect set of sensations: the solid weight of Eggsy’s bulk in his lap; the squeezing, hot channel of his arse around Harry’s cock; the smell of him, the taste Harry has to refresh by putting his sticky fingers to his lips. Eggsy doesn’t even call him names for it, so he must be enjoying himself.

He keeps them there like that, dead still, for what might be a minute or so, might be ten. Harry could measure out the time if he tried but he has no urge to, far more interested in counting Eggsy’s shuddering sighs, the tiny shifts of his hips Harry doesn’t tell him off for because he’s obviously trying his best. He’s aware of every sense. He wonders if this is what all that mindfulness nonsense he was supposed to have a go at when they read his blood pressure wrong should have felt like: whole and absolute appreciation of a moment on its own merit. Perhaps if he’d been balls deep in Eggsy rather than sitting uncomfortably cross-legged on a beanbag at the time he might have understood.

Harry’s prick flexes seemingly of its own accord, and Eggsy breaks the long, heady silence with a whimper.

“Is this hurting you?”

“Not… not  _ hurting _ , it’s just… a lot.”

Harry pets Eggsy's hair back from his face and kisses the shall of his ear. "You've been so good. Do you want to stop?”

Harry feels the squeeze of his muscles - Eggsy checking Harry is still fully hard, rather than asking if he’s still enjoying this.

“No.”

And so they stay: Harry laying back to the extent the chair reclines and Eggsy still, silent, perched atop him. It's likely Eggsy thinks Harry's got his eyes shut but he's actually watching the mirror, watching Eggsy's face as it goes from confused to intrigued to frustrated to hopeful, in time with the squeezing and clenching of his body round Harry's cock, soft at first but then increasingly urgent until he grits out a yell through his teeth and Harry can no longer pretend he isn't noticing.

“Perhaps this will help.”

After managing to squeeze and recap the lube one handed - a neat little move, if a bit needlessly showy when all the other hand is occupied with is a nice little resting position on Eggsy’s hip, keeping him still  - Harry wraps his right around Eggsy’s cock, wet and just tight enough, and begins to stroke him. It feels like veined, hot stone already, and the fact Eggsy doesn’t immediately thrust into Harry’s hand says he knows it’s not going to be this easy but Harry won’t let him have that patience without a fight either: he jerks Eggsy until he’s whining, until he starts trembling, until his legs tense up and the small of his back curves, and stops only when Eggsy starts clenching around him and sucking in breath like he’s about to come regardless of the cock ring.

They both knew he was going to.

After a moment’s held breath, Eggsy’s wince of frustration turns into a mock pout and then a quirk of his eyebrow in the mirrored surface of the wardrobe. He flexes out his fingers and rolls his shoulders to the extent he can with his wrists cuffed either side of his neck, and Harry has seen him do that face at baddies who have pushed their luck. ‘ _ Is that all you’ve got.’  _ But Harry can feel his legs shaking already.

A pause, then, for Harry to get his breath and his physical composure back: although age and practice has afforded him a decent poker face, this could easily prove a little much for even his sexual stamina if he doesn’t pace himself. Eggsy feels glorious and having him still, relatively relaxed, is an unfamiliar twist on the sensation that Harry doesn’t think he could ever last long enough to tire of.  Deep in thought, he moves his hands from their comforting splay on Eggsy’s thighs and trails a the back of his fingernail gently up the side of Eggsy’s cock. Eggsy hisses and squirms as if to get away from him, and then again when he realises Harry isn’t going to stop him.

“Am I allowed to-“ he shifts his hips just softly, his expression needy but willing at Harry in the mirror, and it sends the fiercest shock of want through Harry’s core. The sight of Eggsy sitting astride him, so gorgeously hard and waiting, is one to treasure in itself. His asking,  so politely, whether he may ride on Harry’s cock for his own pleasure is as intense a thrill as him doing it. Harry is nothing but magnanimous.

“Of course.”

It’s all distraction, the poetic evaluation of Eggsy’s form, although Harry doesn’t let himself dwell on as much: the pause was not as long as he should have allowed but by fifty four he’s learned a modicum of control. Enough, certainly, for him to grit his teeth and appreciate the rippling of Eggsy’s abs as he rocks back and forth, trying to sit Harry’s cock into just the right spot, self-focused like he’s scratching his back on a doorframe and Harry’s only too happy to watch, be the prop Eggsy uses to fuck himself. Who is Harry, that this boy comes to him for pleasure?

And ultimately, it won’t get him anywhere this time. The cockring is tight enough, firm enough that Harry is fairly sure no amount of that will tip Eggsy over the edge but Eggsy knows that too and it’s lovely watching him enjoy it, watching him bounce and make the most of the fact he can take it without risking that looming  _ oops,  _ slowing eventually where the strain is telling in his thighs, in the sweart shining on his back. Harry digs his nails into his palms and keeps absolutely still, tries not to acknowledge the sensation of being milkedfor his orgasm by Eggsy’s body. Not yet.

“Come  _ on _ , Harry,” he grunts out, almost petulant, and that shouldn’t be nearly as tempting as it is. “I want to come.”

“Nobody’s stopping you.”

“You are. You did. This fucking ring is stopping me. And I can’t- ” He rattles his wrists in their bindings,  wiggles his elbows up and down in a manner that could easily turn into the  _ Birdie Song _ dance, but the thought’s sobered by the reflection of Eggsy hanging his weight back on the bar, part way between a thug leaning a baseball bat across his shoulders - there’s a thought - and the cover for a trashy top shelf bondage paperback.

“Hmm,” ponders Harry, and then does absolutely nothing about it.

Eggsy cottons on, then. A game he can work with: a game is a challenge, and Eggsy did after all set out to give Harry what he wanted for his birthday. He shakes his head to fend of that wayward strand of hair again and blinks at Harry in their reflection in a way that might look innocent if he weren’t so obviously loving being bound up and splayed out, his cock jutting up rigid and red, centre-frame.

“What do I have to...do? When do I get to come?”

“When I decide you can.”

“Well,” huffs Eggsy, tone far more matter-of-fact than Harry would have credited given how close he came to that precipice just a moment ago, how hard he’s been all morning, how he woke up.  “ _ That’s _ not fucking fair, is it.”

“I don’t have to be fair, it’s my birthday.”

“I’m gonna remember this at Christmas,” he threatens through gritted teeth, and makes another valiant, very pretty effort to move them along with sheer core strength but gives up after a few thrusts when it’s obvious the energy required and the cock ring are going to keep him in check. Eggsy turns his face into the bend of his arm, breathing hard.

Harry’s beginning to regret not taking the same precautions for himself. It’s rarely an issue but he wants to last long enough to see Eggsy pushed to the edge over and over before he gives in and enjoys it with him, and him bouncing around trying to get what he wants with or without Harry’s help feels far too good for all of that. Once the thwarted peak subsides they're still again, pulses tangible in all the places they're joined in the silence of the room. 

Fascinated by this view of him, from the back and the front at once, Harry distracts Eggsy from trying to start moving again just yet with his hands and his mouth. He starts with fingers at the sides of Eggsy's knees, stroking up the outside of his thighs whilst he kisses along Eggsy's hairline and gets treated to a moan as soon as he touches his open lips to Eggsy's jaw. He kisses down his neck and trails his hands up the taut ladder of Eggsy's abs to stroke and tweak at his nipples and christ, they're as solid as his cock, puckered into tiny points Harry can only pinch at with his fingertips without digging his nails in, but he has to, the way his chest is all spread out to the mirror like that. He squeezes at Eggsy's pecs whilst he leans him forward to kiss down his spine and bite at the firm muscles over his shouders, bunched up by the position his arms are bound in. By the time Harry pulls Eggsy back against his own chest, stroking up the insides of his thighs, Eggsy's strangled whining has become a high pitched hum of need. His balls are drawn up so tightly Harry can barely grip them.

Harry sucks at Eggsy's neck, teases with his teeth and feels Eggsy's body gearing up again. When he feels him shaking, he bites down and Eggsy's cry is so loud Harry expects to see him coming but instead his cock jerks violently and then softens just slightly. Harry wraps his arms around him and pets at Eggsy's sides whilst he recovers.

"Gorgeous," Harry finds himself saying, although he doesn't feel Eggsy needs the reassurance. It's just the truth.  Neither of them move. Outside, a door slams and a car starts and it's the first time Harry's been aware of the rest of the world all morning. Can they be heard from the street? Are their neighbours wondering what the bloody hell he's doing to the poor boy, or just why it's taking so long at this ridiculous hour on a Tuesday? From the light through the window it must be coming on for lunchtime.

Eggsy is still obediently sitting where put and Harry's getting used to the silken clutch of his body, somehow, but not quite to the sense of power. 

"Fuck me? Please?" Eggsy tries again, something like meekly, and it makes Harry's stomach flip and his hands clench. He couldn't say no to that if he wanted to and he doesn't, he just grabs Eggsy under the arms and surges up into him, slow and hard at first and then using the bounce of the chair for momentum, hammering up into him at a speed and force that has Eggsy grunting and it might be that it hurts, having been stretched and full for so long, but it's obvious he doesn't care, fixed as Eggsy is on maybe finally getting to finish if Harry gets carried away.

But as soon as it feels like he's getting close again, Harry stops. He knows he can push further, knows Eggsy will thank him for being pushed, and is absolutely not feeling the early start as a burn in his muscles. It's all - surprisingly -going more or less according to plan, and that plan in itself is such a catalogue of frequent fantasy that Harry can scarcely believe this is real. 

_ Phase two,  _  thinks Harry obliquely, and he’d be surprised at his own restraint were that not part of the fantasy, part of what highlights this amongst his favourite pleasures: maintain the upper hand at all costs. Mete out pleasure in increments, dole it, smother him with it; drive Eggsy almost to the point of madness with desire and desperation so that Harry can soak in the unfiltered bliss of gifting him that earth-shattering climax at the end. And that doesn’t work if he loses his own head anywhere in the process. He’s meticulous, like cleaning a firearm or disarming a bomb: his own arousal must be acknowledged, enjoyed even but put aside in favour of making the most of this, and the techniques for retaining control are almost all the same.

The next toy Harry picks up is a large bullet vibrator, the length of a finger and a touch wider. Not suitable for insertion, certainly, but he’s hoping its rounded point is going to make it very useful for what he has in mind.Besides, it wasn’t expensive. It could be a handy addition to the weekend away kit, else it’s going in the bin but it’s worth a try.

Eggsy hasn’t seen it before and seems to read Harry’s skepticism.

“That thing run on watch batteries?”

“AAs.” One AA battery, pinched from a string of fairy lights Eggsy had put up in the bedroom for their anniversary, nestled snug in the barrel. “Why?”

Eggsy nods. “Rox said anything with watch batteries needs to get in the sea.”

Harry swallows a surprised laugh.  

“Much as I’m relieved this doesn’t, I’d gather Miss Morton’s experience would differ wildly from yours.” It’s a surprisingly uncomfortable sentence to get his mouth around, and not at all the time to be sympathising with a colleague’s experience of disappointing sex toys, although the idea that experiences might get compared and contrasted is a very warm one. Because Harry has every intention of making this the sort of fuck Eggsy wants to write to the papers about, now that he’s had a little rest to get his breath back and to make sure the effort of withstanding the grip of Eggsy’s body doesn’t send him categorically insane.

He clicks the button on the base of the wand and presses it to the underneath of the ring. Immediately,  Eggsy tips his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder and groans, long and open.

“Oh, fuck me.”

“What exactly do you think I’m doing?”

There’s no snark in Eggsy’s answer: he’s lost in bliss for a moment.  “Yeah, s’good”.

“Yes? Nice? Batteries up to your exacting standards, are they?” Harry clicks again to turn the power up.

“Fuck off.”

“One day, Eggsy, I am actually going to bend you over a sink and wash your mouth out with soap.”  Not today, though, even though neither of them miss the fact Eggsy’s cock twitches at the threat. It’s spasming occasionally anyway, fighting itself to keep as hard as anatomy wants it to when it’s so uncomfortable, or to soften with exhaustion and overstimulation when even from the rest of his body it’s obvious how turned on Eggsy is. It looks painful.

Harry plants his feet on the floor and uses them to drag them so close to the mirror that Eggsy’s knees are touching it.

“Watch.”

Under the wide-eyed gaze of Eggsy’s reflection, Harry drags the point of the vibrator up the glistening path of fresh precome from where the band  digs into Eggsy’s balls up to the head, and Eggsy’s cock jerks violently in response to the stimulation. The boy himself is surprisingly silent, but when Harry looks up he’s biting his own lip with the effort of not crying out. His face is bright pink.

Eggsy knows what to say if it’s too much and he doesn’t. He doesn’t even look away: although he leans his head into his bent arm he doesn’t close his eyes as Harry traces up his veins with the buzzing tip of the toy, making him throb and pulse and twitch. They’re both fascinated. Every now and then something strikes a chord that makes Eggsy gasp and squeeze his eyes shut, makes a flinch of need go right through his body and clutch at Harry’s cock, but otherwise he watches dutifully.

Harry can hear his own breath, feel the reflection of its warmth against Eggsy’s shoulder as he concentrates on varying the angle and pressure of the patterns he draws with the vibrator until he finds something that makes Eggsy throw his weight back against Harry’s chest and groan long and deep. His cock bounces, vivid red: he’d have come then if it weren’t for the ring, Harry’s sure of it and Harry only gives him a couple of seconds to compose himself before putting the tip of the toy back to the fat arrow of the underneath of Eggsy’s cockhead.

Eggsy keens out, loud and unrestrained, wrists pulling at the clips to the bar across his back although it doesn’t look like he’d know what to do with his hands if he could free them because he’s more intent on rubbing his cock against the vibrator: less, more, the full length and then just the ridge of the head, pushing forward and shifting away like he can’t tell if he loves the sensation or hates it but either way he wants more.

Harry’s own prick throbs madly at him whilst Eggsy squirms on it, his nerves unable to process why he isn’t moving, isn’t  _ fucking _ , but it will just have to wait. Eggsy’s such a good boy, not to wheedle or beg, head tipped backwards like he’s praying and exposing the long, shining column of his throat, but what he doesn’t know is quite how restrained Harry is being, denying himself what his body begs him for so that he can enjoy every second of his favourite display: Eggsy tense and hot and needy and aroused and desperate, because of him. He holds the vibrator sideways so that the smooth metal of the barrel is flat against the underneath of Eggsy’s cock and doesn’t stop him when Eggsy starts rubbing back and forth over the toy in earnest, trying to get enough vibration or friction to get him off and any other time that would likely be enough but just when it seems it might be, Eggsy whines high in his throat and kicks his feet either side of Harry’s in sheer frustration. Tries again, hips tilting helplessly to try to get the most out of the pleasure, fucking himself back on to Harry in the process. Is that part of it? Is he hoping, somewhere in the mess of sensations that has him slack jawed and drooling, his bound arms useless by the sides of his head, that Harry might fuck him right over the edge, or is his whole universe centred on Eggsy’s throbbing, frustrated cock at that moment?

Harry watches, wrapt, as Eggsy writhes and whimpers  and finally, beautifully, a gleaming tear appears at the corner of his eye, sliding into the crease where he’s got them scrunched shut and sparlking there like a prized diamond before the next one pushes it down his flushed cheek. Eggsy hauls a breath in as a sniff and a gasp at once, and lets it out as a desperate wail that makes Harry himself gasp with need. He runs the back of his knuckles up the underside of Eggsy’s cock and even like that he can feel his pulse in it and it drips over his fingers; a matching tear rolls down Eggsy’s face and off his jaw, hitting the back of Harry’s forearm.  

“ _ Please,  _ Harry. Fuck, please -”

He might have planned another round or two but on the very edge of orgasm himself, that’s quite enough for Harry. He reaches under to pinch the toggle on the cock ring pull it free, sparing a moment to look up at their reflection and see the pure shocked gratitude in Eggsy’s eyes, and returns his hand to Eggsy’s cock just as the sensation catches up with him.

Eggsy’s first reaction is a long, loud groan of relief followed by another that’s a throaty, “oh  _ yeah _ , oh fuck- _ ”  _ and Harry knows that tone, knows it’s clipped at the end because it’s already started; the first prickles of Eggsy’s orgasm making his thighs tremble as he works himself frantically for those last seconds on Harry’s cock and falls headlong into bliss. Harry keeps still but for the hand Eggsy’s fucking into,  only watches as hours of teasing rock through Eggsy’s body in spasms and shivers, pouring over Harry’s knuckles and spattering to drip in thick stripes down Eggsy’s cock and over their thighs.

“That’s it. Beautiful.”

Eggsy only moans again, and more than the uneven squeezing of his body it’s the sound of his broken breathing - he’s  _ still _ coming, pulses of liquid surging up with the sloppy movement of Harry’s fist, dripping now, splashing droplets of it onto the mirror and the floor- that tips Harry over.  Eggsy’s heavy, ragged panting, his wrung out whimpers of relief fade out behind the roar of Harry’s own climax, the drum of his heartbeat in his ears, the reward of waiting for release paying off in a dazzling rush of pleasure and one stuttering sigh against the back of Eggsy’s neck.

It takes them a while to recover enough to untangle themselves: Harry unfastens Eggsy and Eggsy makes the birthday concession of being the one to mop the mess up from the mirror, but he does make a crack about Harry not having to bend down at his time of life whilst he does it.

“You want to get the glass polish on that, or-”

“Literally fuck off.”

Harry’s spent, absolutely and deeply sated and has nothing to prove so if he then lays on the bed between Eggsy’s spread legs with his fingers in Eggsy’s arse and Eggsy’s cock in his mouth, just to see how many orgasms he can milk from him before he taps out or they have to get ready for dinner, that’s for his own amusement and maybe perhaps to ensure that’s the last age-related wisecrack he hears out of Eggsy today.

“There ain’t no more in there for you,” Eggsy tells him with an accusing raise of his eyebrow after he’s surprised by the second climax happening so readily, so soon after he came on Harry’s cock, and Harry doesn’t leave him alone when he’s eagerly swallowed it down.

“Can we keep going anyway?”

“If that’s what you want? You grotty old freak?”

Harry bites him hard enough to leave a bruise on the inner thigh and makes him work through another two orgasms for that, albeit the last one is dry save for the tiniest trickle of what Harry would otherwise think was precome. Fortunately - beautifully - Eggsy gets more vocal with each shuddering climax and the rhythmic spasming of his muscles gets more pronounced, his thighs jerking dramatically either side of Harry’s face as he howls and yanks on Harry’s hair to pull him away.

“Seriously, babes, I’m done.”

He’s done enough to stay soft, affectionate and sleepy, throughout a shared shower in which he insists on massaging and washing Harry, though whether that’s because it’s his birthday or because he’s come-drunk and lovestruck, Harry isn’t sure. It’s not as if it matters: either way it’s quite lovely and Harry, clean, dry, sporting his new tie and watching Eggsy tuck his gorgeous-smelling form into an excellent charcoal suit and an open necked shirt, couldn’t be any happier.

It’s certainly ample motivation to be disarmingly gracious whilst everyone tries to embarrass him with singing and cocktails with sparklers in them, and he knows from the look Merlin shoots him that despite all incriminating marks being expertly covered and smelling of nothing except his second bottle of bespoke Penhaglion, it would be absolutely obvious how they’d spent their day to a passing stranger with a low IQ, let alone a table of spies. Eggsy stays close, still a little dazed unless Harry’s being over fanciful, and keeps Harry plied with sweet drinks and sweeter kisses; everybody drinks far too much, laughs far too loudly for the calibre of the bar.

Naturally they rib him like mad about his advancing years but Harry’s only too grateful to have made it through another one to count, and he can’t think of any better way to celebrate that than with Eggsy sitting shamelessly  in his lap whilst Harry blows out candles shaped into the number fifty four… because yes, he’s well aware fifty four actual candles would be too much of a fire hazard, thank you very much, but it’s certainly come with its perks.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Every kudos and comment is MASSIVELY appreciated and helps me to keep the inspiration and motivation going when all else seems to conspire against writing. I value each and every one, and each and every one of you, and I love to chat so do come and find me.
> 
> Don't forget to subscribe/ [ follow ](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/randomactsofviolence) /check back if you're interested in the big pieces that have been taking all my time of late! One's a rom com, the other's a load of smut. I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.


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